


Move closer (I gotta feel your touch)

by sirona



Series: I stand in front of you, I'll take the force of the blow [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Clint has read way too many paranormal romances, Clint is also hilarious, Injury, M/M, Marking, Mating, Phil just wants to take care of Clint, Possessiveness, Protectiveness, Romance, Wall Sex, alllll the vampire tropes ever, biting kink, clint is a bit of a dick, pre-avengers, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Phil is a vampire and Clint finds out. It... doesn't really go the way Phil might have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Move closer (I gotta feel your touch)

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to 17pansies for saddling me with this plot bunny in the first place, feeding it and nurturing it as I spammed her inbox with ridiculousness, a marvellously insightful beta job, and not talking me out of calling this _My Immortal_ (which obviously I didn't, but only because baby deserves a chance /0\\). She's pretty wonderful like that.
> 
> Title courtesy of Placebo instead, from the fabulously sexy _Kitty Litter_.
> 
> This is a part of the Protective!Phil series, although the stories within are unrelated. Because I LOVE protective!Phil, okay. >.>

Phil slumped against the wall of the warehouse, exhaustion slipping greedy fingers into his consciousness. At least they were safe now. For a given value of 'safe', granted; they were still in one of Varna's shadiest neighbourhoods, deep in gang territory, and there were two dozen well-paid thugs combing the passages on their disgruntled bosses' orders. Not exactly an ideal situation.

At least there were no trackers on the teams, though it was only a matter of time. Phil may have....miscalculated this one, much as it pained him to admit it. It was an unacceptable failure in the intel he'd gathered on the situation. To fail to realise that Bulgarian gangs don't get as powerful as this one without the presence of at least one bloodsucker with their fingers deep in all the pies was inexcusable. 

This distraction was becoming a problem. He would have to swallow his wishes and cut it off before it killed more than just him. It wouldn't be the first time he has gone against his hopes and desires, and God knew it wouldn't be the last. You didn't reach his age without becoming familiar with disappointment. 

That was, of course, assuming he made it through this in one piece. The seeping wound in his side wasn't quite as bad as the one he'd sustained during the Colonisation -- no nicked spine this time -- but side swords didn't have much on the enormous machete-like blades these goons favoured. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was currently knitting together most of his liver and the bottom half of his right lung. Stupid, stupid. He should never have gotten caught out like this, but Clint had chosen that exact moment to get a bullet through his thigh, and Phil had.... Yeah. The distraction was getting worse. He didn't think that was possible, not when he was already so...

He forced his mind to stop ruminating on the issue. It was nothing so much as poking his tongue at a bad tooth, and Phil would know. God knew he hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Really, at forty-five physical years of age, he ought to have died of natural causes in his lifetime. Remarkable, what vampire blood did to tissue, but even that couldn't bring back all of his hair, or smooth the wrinkles from his face.

Hmm. His brain seemed to be engaged in a coping mechanism from his human days, focusing on something to take his mind off the fact that his blood was getting used up quite rapidly. He would have to transfuse himself, and soon.

At least Clint was alright. Phil hoped he was doing the smart thing and making arrangements to get himself the hell out of Dodge, as he was so fond of calling it. The bullet wound was a through-and-through, Phil was positive, and while, yes, it would hurt like Hell, Clint would be able to get himself to safety. His heartbeat was strong in Phil's ears, attuned to it as they had become over the years. He'd be fine.

Phil ought to be, too. 

"Crap, no," he groaned to himself when the heartbeat, instead of fading as Clint moved away, got louder. Ridiculous man. 

"Hey, boss? You in here?" came Clint's low murmur, swiftly followed by his head poking through the broken pane of the window three feet away from where Phil sat. The smell of his blood hit Phil like a sledgehammer; Clint had bound his leg with a makeshift field dressing, but it could never dull the strawberries-and-honey smell of him, like a sun-drenched meadow, lying on a picnic blanket under the shade of an oak tree, relishing the sunlight glinting through wide green leaves. It was _intoxicating_ ; every time Phil smelled it, he became a little more addicted, and this time there was nothing to hide it, not like the smell of antiseptic in med bay or the stench of discharge residue hanging in the air.

"Over here," Phil said calmly, grateful that he didn't need to breathe much and Clint would be spared the sickening wheeze of his lung expelling the blood.

Clint jumped off the ledge, landing with a bit of a grunt that meant they weren't in any immediate danger, or Clint would have never let himself make the sound. He approached Phil on nimble feet despite his wound, footsteps soft and sure. Phil heard his shocked intake of breath loud and clear when Clint noticed that the lower half of his jacket hung loose on the right, where it had been cut clean through. The dim light hid nothing from Clint's eyes, not even nuances of red and black. Not to mention that the blood that had soaked through Phil's shirt would stink to him. Vampire blood didn't oxygenate in the same way as human; the smell was more that of burnt copper than iron, though only glaring when there was a large amount of it in one place. Like right then.

"Jesus Christ, sir," Clint rasped. Phil was taken aback at the waver in his voice, small but most certainly there. Clint dropped to one knee, hand hovering over Phil's side, the warmth of it shocking next to his freezing skin. Losing blood made the temperature of his body drop even lower; he couldn't afford to have Clint touch him like this -- the blood, apart from chilled, would also be thick, viscous. Clint was far from stupid, and had a remarkable gift for taking the unusual and downright weird and, instead of panicking or going into flat-out denial, processing the results and accepting the conclusion, no matter how strange. Phil had managed to keep his secret from him this long, and he was loathe to have things change between them, once Clint realised. 

(Illogical, because it was what he should have wanted, encouraged. Logic and emotion, however, did not always go hand in hand, as Mr Spock would tell you – and Phil must be more out of it than he realised, if that was the kind of thought his brain produced.)

"It's fine, Clint," Phil said, moving his arm with some difficulty to bar Clint's questing fingers. "It looks worse than it is."

Vampires were at least four times stronger than humans, and half again as fast. But the loss of blood had made Phil sluggish and human-slow, and Clint batted his arm away easily, pulling the rip in Phil's shirt apart to get at the wound underneath.

Phil closed his eyes.

The touch of Clint's fingertips on his skin was scorching hot, for all that it was excruciatingly careful. Phil knew nothing so much as the overwhelming desire to curl into that touch, leech some of the heat of Clint's skin, shift them so that he was plastered to Clint's side with his cheek over Clint's heartbeat, taking comfort from its strength. Ridiculous notion, yet there it was. 

Clint was quiet for a long time, longer than Phil would have allowed to occur, had he his wits about him. 

"Sir, I think maybe I'm not here at all. I think I'm sitting in an uncomfortable chair, trussed up like the star in an extremely kinky porn vid, being fed mind-altering substances, because I'm pretty sure you're not human. Sorry, sir. I swear it's not on purpose, I'd much rather be here with you than captured by them, human or not."

Phil let his head rest back against the wall, suffused with amusement despite the rather precarious situation he found himself in. "I appreciate the sentiment, specialist," he said dryly. "Sadly, I can assure you that you are not currently tied to a chair and drugged up. I'd know if you were. You're going to have to trust me on that."

Silence. Phil's muddled brain placed this firmly into the 'not good' category. 

"You know, I can't help but notice that you haven't disputed the 'not human' part, sir." Clint's voice was calm. Measured. An agent collecting intel. Phil winced.

"Not exactly how I thought I'd be telling you this. On the other hand, for the life of me I can't image _why_ I thought that."

More silence. Then, a lusty sigh that seemed to come all the way from Clint's toes. His breath smelled of bitter adrenaline and a touch of cloves from the tea he'd had just before they'd set out. Strangely, of the many emotions Phil was in the grip of now, fear was not one. Even if Clint chose to try and kill him, Phil thought he'd be fine with that. They all had to go sometime, and his life had been....long. Too long, maybe.

Not that he believed it would come to that. This was Clint, and Phil trusted him unreservedly.

"Well, that's a turn-up for the books. I'm pretty sure Lee just won the Agency pool, not that she'd know. She wouldn't, right, sir?"

Phil shakes his head. "Nobody knows. Well, Director Fury does, probably Hill, too. Natasha suspects, she's had brush-ups with my kind before. And now you do, too."

"Mm-hm," Clint murmured, that slow, steady sound that signalled that Clint Barton was thinking, and putting pieces together faster than you could possibly imagine. He sat down by Phil's side, shoulder almost close enough to touch, and stretched his injured leg out with a pained sigh. "So you are--what, exactly?"

Phil sent him a quelling look in the near-darkness. "Uncomfortable with this conversation, mostly. What do you think, Barton?"

Clint shrugged, so close to unconcerned that he was either the best actor Phil knew (he wasn't) or he genuinely wasn't particularly worried. "I don't know. If vampires are real, that means all the other things that go bump in the night might be, too. Didn't want to jump to conclusions."

Phil experienced the not-so-uncommon desire to laugh slightly hysterically at how this--this extraordinary man continued to surprise him at every turn. Before Clint Barton had come waltzing (well, okay, tumbling off a roof; his point stands) into his life, Phil thought he had seen everything, done pretty much everything there was to see and do. He had been...tired. Listless. He should have known better than to tempt fate.

"That's a question for another time," he prevaricated, ignoring Clint's miffed groan. "Suffice to say, your first guess is customarily correct."

Clint shook his head with a huff of laughter. "Well, now I know where your vocabulary comes from," he mumbled. Phil's ears picked it out easily, along with the spike in his heartbeat. Something tightened inside him, and ached. The one thing he had always secretly hoped for was that he'd never be subjected to the pain of Clint, afraid of him. Oh, well.

He wanted to take a deep breath, cleanse the thought from his head. That would only exacerbate the slowly healing wound, however, and so he desisted. 

"It's not exactly kosher to mention this, but I can hear your heart racing. Your thoughts, too. Care to share?"

Clint started, turning to face him. "You can hear my _thoughts_?" He sounded horrified. 

Choosing to go for amused rather than hurt (because, just, no), Phil rolled his eyes. "No, Barton, I can't read your thoughts. That one really is just an expression. And thank God, because I'd probably go mad if I could."

Clint scowled. "Har har, sir."

Phil let the corner of his mouth curl up. Mostly, he was faint with relief that Clint was still sitting there, right next to him, _bantering_. God, this man. Was it any wonder that Phil was so lost in him?

Clint fidgeted with his hands, then looked up again. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

Phil shrugged. It couldn't get any worse that it was now. "Knock yourself out."

"It's a personal question," Clint said, completely serious. 

Too serious; Phil knew he should have braced for what was coming. But he was tired, and enjoying this way too much. "Just ask, Barton," he said wearily.

Another pause. "Do you sparkle? Because I haven't seen it, but maybe I wasn't paying enough attention before--"

Phil tuned him out; at the risk of undoing some of his body's good work, he moved enough to smack Clint's uninjured leg with the back of his hand. Clint snickered, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Don't be like that, sir. It's a legitimate question. An important question. Enquiring minds want to know."

"Are you trying to get bitten?"

Clint shut up. Phil felt like the monster the humans who had found out kept accusing him of being. He did breathe deep then, and braced himself.

Not, it turned out, for what would actually happen. Stupid, stupid, wonderful Barton.

"You can, you know," Clint said quietly. "If you need to. You probably need to. I'd be okay with that, I think."

"You think?" Phil managed to force out from a throat that felt unusually tight.

"Shut up. Do you need to bite me or what?"

Holy Christ in heaven. What was Phil supposed to do with this guy?

"So hey," Clint said when Phil hesitated, warming up to his theme. "Do you only need blood to keep going? Because I've _seen_ you eat those disgusting doughnuts, and put away a stack of pancakes bigger than my head, and from my observations I could have sworn that coffee is the liquid you live off of."

Phil shrugged, struggling to stay calm. All this talk of blood was _not helping_ , especially when he had Clint next to him, smelling of distilled summer, promising delight with every sip. 

"I mostly get by on blood transfusions. A hundred millilitres or so orally helps convert the food in my stomach into nutrients and energy. I don't need it, but -- I enjoy it. As for coffee, even vampires have a heartbeat, you know."

"Come on, boss, cut me some slack," Clint grumbled. "I'm new to all this."

Phil bit his lip. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. I must say, you are taking all of this in with remarkable aplomb."

For a reason he could not even begin to understand, Clint flushed bright red and avoided his eyes. The scent of his heated skin was making Phil dizzy.

"Yeah, well. It's you," Clint said at last, sounding embarrassed. 

Phil frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Clint shrugged. "You're Phil Coulson. I don't care what your biological make-up is. You're just--you."

Huh.

Clint fidgeted again, sending Phil an unreadable look. "So, about the biting? How much blood do you need? Will I be enough?"

For all of the borrowed heat from Clint sitting at his side, Phil felt abruptly cold all over. 

"No. Barton. No. Jesus, do you even realise what you're saying?"

Clint turned to him properly, shifting just a little bit further away with the movement. "What? I'm human, I have blood, it's good blood, I promise. Disease-free and everything. Just take what you need."

Phil hissed, fighting to shift away from Clint, remove himself from the seductive temptation that Clint didn't even know he was to Phil.

"Barton. Stop."

Clint scowled. "Fuck, Coulson, what's wrong with you? I want to help you, why are you being a dick? What, is my blood not good enough for you?"

Phil closed his eyes; wished he could close his ears, too, to the sliver of hurt he could hear weaving through Clint's voice.

"Clint. That's not it. Christ, how can you even--I might kill you, don't you get that?"

He might have yelled that last bit, Phil wasn't sure, but there was a strange ringing in his ears and his vision was starting to fuzz around the edges with exhaustion. 

"When I'm this weak, I might drain you without even realising," he admitted in a whisper, shame burning hot where blood didn't. 

Clint blinked at him, quiet and still as a mouse. Then he shook his head. "No. You won't. You couldn't. You have the best self-control of anyone I've ever met. I trust you, sir. You won't hurt me."

Phil closed his eyes, shook his head. "I am not myself right now, Clint. _I_ don't trust me. Besides, you're hurt, too. I can't risk not being able to gauge how much you can spare, once I taste you." God, it was hard to admit, but if that's what it took...

Clint Barton, Phil had always known, has a tenuous relationship with self-preservation, because Phil could have sworn he swayed closer rather than get as far away from Phil as he could.

"Sir. Coulson. This is all academic. You are hurt, you need blood or you might die. And I'm _not_ letting you die. If I have to, I'll wait until you pass out and then I'll cut my wrist open over your mouth. Okay? Wouldn't it be better for both of us if you are conscious so you can control this thing?"

Phil couldn't help it. He shuddered, chest expanding in shock at what he was hearing come out of Clint's mouth, and yep, there was the sickening whistle of air escaping from his lungs. Clint flinched.

"Please, Phil," he whispered, so quietly that Phil probably wouldn't have heard him if he didn't have preternatural hearing. "Don't make me watch you die."

Phil closed his eyes, resigning himself to the inevitable. It was not as if he could refuse Clint anything, not when he asked like this, soft and broken and pleading. The things Phil would do for him were frankly frightening to contemplate.

"Give me your arm."

Clint complied immediately, scooting closer with a small whimper of pain until his folded leg touched Phil's hip. He held out his arm, wrist up, like it was an offering, despite the grimy, dusty skin of his underarm -- and it was, the most cherished bounty imaginable. For the first time all evening, Phil stopped fighting himself and inhaled deeply, mouth and nose flooding with the scent of him, wild, clean even under the dirt and sweat, the freshness of the outdoors, the fragrant musk of the woods of Upstate New York Clint so loved to walk.

"Are you sure about this?" Phil asked one more time, nervous like he had never felt before. He was far from a young vampire; his control was honed over hundreds of years, thousands of fights, each one a lesson in patience, endurance, going against his nature and learning to hold himself back. Yet, now, he perceived a greater threat to himself than any before: that he may harm one of the very few people in all this time who made him feel truly alive.

Clint sighed, leaned in close enough to put his forehead on the ball of Phil's shoulder, rubbing a little to make his point. "I'm sure," he said, lifting his head to look Phil in the eye, breath sliding gently over the skin of Phil's neck.

Phil swallowed dryly. He felt undone by the trust shining from Clint's eyes, crippled by his own desire for him. He licked his lips.

"This will probably hurt," he warned, making an effort to enunciate carefully, to compensate as his fangs dropped from his upper gums, capping his incisors.

Clint's heart rate spiked; Phil could sense the network of blood vessels over his body, smell the way they pulsed harder in response. "What, no vampire glamour?" Clint drawled, trying for teasing but falling somewhere more in the category of apprehensive. "You're not going to make me swoon with pleasure while you drink from me?"

The throb of lust through Phil's groin startled him, made him feel lightheaded to have his blood flow even more distracted. "What have you been reading?" he managed, wondering if it was even possible to distract Clint from the way Phil's whole body swayed towards him. So many responses sprang to his lips: "Next time, baby," and "If you ask nicely," and "This place hardly encourages swooning, but if you insist," but he bit them all back, forced himself not to let Clint lower his guard, like he always seemed to manage.

"Oh come on, how am I supposed to know? All the books and movies can't have gotten it completely wrong?" Clint grumbled.

Phil scoffed weakly. "This isn't a paranormal romance, Barton. And no, I'm not going to 'make you swoon' -- not this time. You need your wits about you; you need to be aware of what's happening, and--and you need to stop me if I go too far. The second you start to feel odd, you make me let you go by any means necessary, up to and including putting a knife through my chest. That is a direct order, understood?"

Clint stared back at him, breathing a touch too hard. Good. He should be scared. Even weakened like this, Phil could still pin him down and take what he needed from him. Grim resolve filled him when the thought didn't immediately heighten his arousal -- it was a measure of how serious the situation was.

"I said, is that understood, Agent Barton?" he repeated. He wasn't exactly in a position to do much about it, but the hell this was happening if Clint didn't at least _promise_.

Clint's face was set in a mulish scowl that Phil did not like the look of one bit. He sighed tiredly, letting his head slump back against the wall. "You asked me not to make you watch me die. Please do me the courtesy of affording me the same. I--I've been alive for a long time; there are untold horrors in my past, most of them my own doing. I've learned to live with them. This, however, is not something I _could_ live with. Do you understand, Clint?"

Clint swallowed, leaning a shade closer, seemingly searching Phil's eyes in what little light succeeded in making its way through the filthy windows. Phil looked back, letting his mask drop. What was the point of it, anymore? Clint knew what he was. It was all too likely that what he was doing now was a reaction to stress; that once this was over, and they were free, his accepting attitude would change. Phil was not in the habit of fostering illusions. It would hurt like a kind of Hell he had not yet known -- but at least Clint would be alive, and whole. No more secrets. At least, apart from the one harbouring his true feelings towards his agent. Phil would hang on to that one, thank you.

"I think I do," Clint said slowly, weight on every syllable that didn't belong to simply acknowledging Phil's terms. Phil was too tired to parse this out just now; the energy he was expending to keeping himself in check, away from tearing out Clint's neck in the urge to get to his blood, was already more than he could spare.

"Okay," Phil sighed. "Good."

"Good," Clint echoed. “Now, are you going to bite me or what? I mean," he added hurriedly when Phil raised an eyebrow, "is that how it works? Do you need me to do... anything?"

Phil couldn't help the smile, he really couldn't. It felt like it was coming from somewhere deep inside, a part of him only Clint, and sometimes Nick and Natasha, could reach. Clint stared at him like he'd grown two heads, and Phil realised too late that he was grinning at him with his fangs unmistakably on show. A scalding flush rushed over his cheeks as blood got diverted yet again from its task of healing him; Phil would never understand what it was about emotions that they had transferred into his undead body along with his consciousness. He closed his eyes and waited for Clint to turn away. 

Instead, as was often the case with the man before him, Clint leaned closer, right into his space, facing the danger head-on with nary a blink. "Come on, sir," he murmured, the arm not dangling enticingly under his nose curling around Phil's shoulders to prop him up.

Phil gave in to temptation. He could hear Clint's pulse pounding under his skin; he could smell the tang of it, calling him closer. He drew his lips back, and very, very carefully allowed his fangs to pierce the surface of Clint's skin, dig deeper, tap the vein. The burst of flavour on his tongue nearly knocked him backwards through the wall; he could taste the tea Clint smelled of, the bacon from the sandwich he'd wolfed down earlier, the hint of sweetness from the peaches he'd had for desert, ripe and soft, pinking his lips as he struggled not to let the juice spill down his chin. It took all of Phil's strength not to worry at the skin, not to dig deeper, widen the hole, take more of him into his mouth.

With the taste, inevitably came the memories -- the worst part, for Phil. It was always thus -- he felt enough of a thief already, swallowing down a part of that person, their life, their strength and taking their thoughts, their feelings, their most intimate memories as well. That was why he preferred transfusions; at least those were cold, clinical, filled with a vague sense of well-wishing on the part of the brave, generous people who chose to share themselves with those who needed them -- even if they were creatures like him, always stealing, never giving anything in return.

He saw through Clint’s eyes the week before, sitting in his bundle of blankets and pillows on the window seat in his apartment at the tower, book open in his lap while his forehead rested on the enormous pane of glass that made up one wall of his living room, a small smile drifting over his lips as he watched the rain fall on the grey city and twinkling lights spread beneath him. He saw two days ago, when Clint and Natasha had gone out for a walk, strolling shoulder-to-shoulder down the sidewalk, two gorgeous strangers bundled in hoodies and jackets, skinny jeans wrapping their legs, matching combat boots, matching wraparound shades. He felt the contentment that suffused Clint when he looked around idly, when he felt the brush of Nat's elbow on his, the warmth of her, like an exquisitely shaped furnace. A shift in memory, and he saw—felt—longing, bittersweet happiness, watching a man in a dark suit walk across the inner quad of SHIELD HQ three floors below him, vibrant purple tie floating on the wind over his shoulder—

He drew back with a gasp, soaring on the wave of power the fresh blood gave him. His face felt scalding hot once more, a wave that broke down his chest, into his arms until his fingers tingled. He became aware of Clint's skin under his hands, hands that were holding his arm up to Phil's mouth. He dropped it like it was on fire, gaze flying to Clint's face, frantically checking him over for damage, for signs he'd gone too far. Clint slumped against him; his breath was tight and fast where it touched his skin, carrying the tiniest of pained gasps to Phil's ears, but it was breath, warm and alive, and Phil felt almost faint with relief.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about the no pleasure zone," Clint said tightly, burrowing closer to him, like he was seeking relief, reassurance. Phil hated himself in that moment more than he ever had before. Causing pain to people he loved was always the one exemption to his 'no regrets' rule.

"I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I'm sorry, are you okay?"

Clint's hand came up, wrapped itself around Phil's wrist, fingers unerringly finding his pulse and leeching on the spot, pressing down onto it. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. His voice was firm, but his pulse was thready in Phil's ears. Phil had to get him out of there, stat.

He took stock of himself. The fresh blood had done the trick; his lung was all fine and dandy, and his liver could finish repairing itself on the way. Before his fangs could retract, he reached up and nicked his index finger on the tip. His hands were strong and sure when he felt for Clint's wound, tearing the fabric of Clint's pants open wider so he could get to the skin. He squeezed on his finger, measuring ten careful drops into the hole in Clint's thigh, watched with satisfaction as it knitted itself closed. Instantly, the tense line of Clint's shoulders eased up a little, and he slumped further into the curve of Phil's body with a relieved whimper.

Phil did the same with the already rapidly bruising spot on Clint’s arm, where his fangs had left behind a vicious, purpling haematoma under the skin. His blood sealed the vessel shut, just like it was supposed to, helped drain the excess flow that had caught under the epidermis. Clint’s breathing instantly levelled out, and his weight increased two-fold. If his enhanced senses hadn’t broadcasted Clint’s vitals loud and clear, Phil was sure that would have been the moment when he’d have had a full-out panic attack. As it was, Clint was very much alive – just exhausted, something the blood loss had only exacerbated. 

Phil leaned Clint’s body carefully against the wall, just for long enough so he could get to his feet. Then he leaned down and gathered Clint into his arms, braced him against his chest, let his head loll onto his shoulder. Clint didn’t move, but his body fit into Phil’s arms so sweetly, felt so right there that Phil had to take a long moment to just breathe, weather the storm of emotions it unleashed inside him, take it and accept it and place it gently aside. It was the work of a moment to jump through the window that had been Clint’s entry point, then use the dumpster in the alleyway to boost himself up onto the roof. Then it was an easy trip across the rooftops, heading west, towards the sprawl of the city and away from the docks. 

It took him just over forty minutes from the floor of the warehouse to unlocking the door of their safehouse, shifting Clint so he could press his palm to the panel in the wall and let the retinal scanner do its job. The door unlocked with a snick, and Phil pushed it open slowly, senses extending into the tiny apartment. There wasn’t a sound or smell out of place, so Phil walked through the door at last, pushing it closed with his shoulder before he carried Clint into the bedroom. He lowered him gently onto the bed, taking a moment to unlace and remove his boots, shift his clothes so they didn’t dig into his back. Clint’s dirt-laden fringe drooped into his eyes, so Phil pushed that back, too, two fingers gliding over the skin of his forehead that was dappled with shadowy smudges. 

And then he made himself leave the room, and let Clint sleep without Phil stalking him like—an extremely unflattering comparison that he was _not_ going to make.

An hour or so after he’d contacted Nick to report on the relative success of the mission, and promised a more thorough report once Nick had finished dealing with whatever disaster he had going on now, by the sounds of it, Phil padded back into the bedroom, placing a tall glass of water at the bedside table along with two iron tablets and a multivitamin capsule. Then he took off his ruined suit, taking care to bundle it immediately into a bin bag, ready for disposal. A shower sounded _heavenly_ , especially since he felt like Clint’s blood was still thrumming through his veins, as if it hadn’t long ago been converted into vampiric plasma and tissue. He needed—some distance. He needed to wash Clint off of him, the smell of his skin, the feel of it under his lips, his teeth. He could not afford to let it linger, not even when—especially not when he wanted to, so much. It would only make things harder in the long run, and he knew that.

So why did it feel like he was….betraying Clint, almost? Like he was squandering his gift? Christ above, Phil needed to get a grip, and fast.

He got under the streaming jet of the power shower set to as hot a setting as his body could stand, and closed his eyes. He tried not to think of anything at all – particularly not the fact that the shower stall was still wet, that he’d heard Clint go in a little while ago, had listened to him stumble around and had to sit on his hands not to go and help. There were limits to his control, and he’d already tested it severely tonight. The shower smelled like Clint’s sandalwood soap, vanilla from the shampoo someone had left behind the last time this place had been used. Phil thought of how the scent would linger in Clint’s hair, of pressing his nose in the pillow after Clint had spent the night, seeking out traces of him – clean and musky-warm, temptation itself. 

He gave himself exactly thirty seconds of pleasant contemplation. Then he reached over to the taps, and turned the cold setting all the way up.

When he walked out of the bathroom, the glass of water was empty and the pills were gone. Clint was curled up on his side facing the bedroom door, back very firmly presented to the spot where Phil stood. Phil's heart sank with a sick thud echoing through his chest. Right, then. 

He made his way to the corner by the chest of drawers, where his case stood ready to be grabbed and hauled away. He unzipped it quietly, rifled inside for a clean pair of underpants and a t-shirt, the pair of soft, worn jogging pants he tended to bring on every mission, just because. He was a creature of habit when he wasn't out in the field and required to constantly adapt as a matter of survival, and tonight he needed the reassurance they provided. He got dressed quickly in near silence. Clint never stirred; Phil was aware that he was frowning, could not suppress the spike of worry. Once clothed, he left the towel on the free side of the bed and walked around to take a look at Clint's face.

His eyes were closed. His eyes were closed and his face was slack, damp strands of hair falling across his forehead, and Phil shook his head at himself in despair that he hadn't even realised that Clint was asleep again. He hadn't thought to expect it -- Clint usually slept so lightly that Phil had thought--he didn't know what he'd thought. That Clint was ignoring him? That he was being deliberately cruel? Christ, he was a mess. He took in the way Clint had curled in on himself, hands tucked close to his face, back trustingly presented to Phil, like he knew Phil would watch it, no matter what-- Oh. Phil couldn't breathe. God, he was so gone on him.

Clint didn't stir, not even when Phil stood there and watched him for several long minutes. He must be utterly exhausted, because Phil had known him to snap awake after mere seconds of someone’s eyes on him. Phil considered everything that had happened since they landed in Varna, the whole sorry mess, and then he went to find his phone again. One more day for Clint to get his breath (and some of his blood) back before they got picked up wouldn't make a difference one way or another, which is exactly what he told Nick when he answered.

Nick heaved a pointed sigh on the other end of the line. "Shit, Coulson. You told him, didn't you." He didn't bother coddling Phil by letting him pretend it was a question.

"Not exactly, boss," Phil hedged. He could practically see Nick glaring at him through the phone.

"But he knows," Nick said heavily. He wasn't letting this go.

It was Phil's turn to sigh. "Yeah. He knows. I took a hit, and he isn't stupid. He made me drink from him."

Silence, filled with a thousand things unsaid that Phil would bet just about anything that Nick got anyway. 

"Uh huh," Nick said in the end. No matter how old Phil might get, he didn't think he'd ever manage not to cringe when Nick got like that. "And now you're drowning in your own guilt and beating yourself up with a tree-sized stick. Don't even bother," he drawled, cutting through the protests that had sprung on Phil's lips. "I remember how you get. And I'll tell you this for free: I didn't blame you for it, and neither will he. You know that."

"Boss, I..." Phil tried, feeling small and defeated and so tired. "You'll probably have his handler transfer request on your desk when we get back."

More silence. It was Nick's favourite trick when it came to his subordinates and friends alike -- let 'em sweat, fill in the charged quiet by themselves. Phil wished he could say those tricks didn't work on him, but -- he'd be lying, wouldn't he.

"Bet you ten bucks I won't," Nick said in the end, amused. Phil made a face at the far wall of the kitchenette.

"See you on Thursday, boss."

"Be safe," Nick replied, like he always did whenever Phil had to go away.

Every now and again, after conversations just like this one, Phil was prey to the startling realisation that he probably knew pretty well what it must feel like to be a father, never mind that Nick was over fifty years old now. Forty years is a long time to know someone, especially when that meant watching them grow up, too. He likely could take it on faith that Nick knew what he was talking about -- but Phil had never been much good at that kind of thing.

He put the phone down on the table and stared at it for a while, long minutes ticking past while he tried to empty his mind of Nick and work and blood and Clint. One by one they fell to the wayside -- apart from the last one, that was. Phil could hear him breathing in the next room, could hear the exact moment when that breathing quickened, turned ragged, broken by tiny whimpers that tore at Phil's heart. Before he knew what he was doing, he was in the bedroom, hovering over Clint, one hand a mere inch above Clint's arm, hesitating. But then Clint tried to curl up into an even smaller ball and Phil could bear it no longer.

He held his breath when his palm made contact with Clint's muscled shoulder, skin hot through the fresh t-shirt he'd pulled on after his shower.

"Clint. Wake up. It's okay, you're okay. We're safe."

Phil would have kept up the litany of useless reassurances, but then Clint's eyes snapped open, such pale blue that they were almost translucent in the dim light of the room. They darted this way and that, near-frantic; his hand fisted in Phil's shirt, pulling him closer, down onto the bed even as he tucked himself over him, like he was shielding him with his body. Phil's chest felt too tight; his own breathing sped up in surprise, which only made things worse since it brought more of Clint's distinctive scent with every lungful, sleep-warm, a tang of sandalwood, the vanilla Phil knew would smell amazing on him, musky and inviting. Phil fought not to, flat-out _forbid_ himself to react.

He reached over to the night stand with the arm not pinned under Clint's weight, pawing at the surface until his fingers landed on the switch for the light and snapped it on. Clint's eyes focused immediately, pupils narrowing as he took in the bedroom of the safehouse, recognition trickling back with every second. Phil forced himself to stop gazing into his face like a lovestruck damsel; he looked away instead, down at Clint's shoulder so close to his mouth, muscles flexing as it rolled and relaxed. Christ above, this was _so_ not helping. Clint's chest pushed into his on every inhale. Phil had to disengage now or risk Clint finding out just how much he was enjoying this.

Before he could say a single thing, though, let alone move in the slightest, Clint let out a long, shaky exhale that tickled the bare skin of Phil's collarbone -- and then, flummoxing Phil well and good, he rolled to press his face into the skin of Phil's neck, tucked his nose into the curve of it flowing into Phil's shoulder, inhaled deeply and then exhaled open-mouthed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, clutching at Phil's shirt just as tightly as when he'd thought they were in danger. "Just for a minute." His voice was deep and languid; Phil wondered if he was even fully awake, if he was still dizzy from the blood loss and Phil seemed like the only thing that stood still. It wasn't exactly a hardship to give him this, to let Clint wrap himself around him, shift until a knee was pushing between Phil's, then settling in the cradle they made. Phil squeezed his eyes shut, reminded his stupid libido that Clint wasn't himself right now, that only the worst kind of asshole would take advantage of him when he was addled and defenceless. It didn't stop him from curling one arm around Clint's shoulders, the other over his waist, resting his palm on the small of Clint's back, letting his head drop back onto the pillow and closing his eyes. Just for a minute, indeed. Whom could it hurt?

He woke the second the bed moved, dipping on the far side of him. His arms tightened instinctively, but there was nothing to hold onto; blearily, he cracked his eyes open, wincing when the morning light slid between his eyelids and stabbed him in the brain. He clapped his palms over his face, trying to ward it off.

A panicked inhale, and a mad scramble towards the windows, and then blessed gloom descended once more.

"Oh, god, are you all right? Shit, does the sun burn you, is that true, let me take a look, how bad is it?"

Phil kept his hands over his face, but he could do nothing about the way his shoulders shook, or the choked-off whimper in his throat.

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," Clint's voice hissed, coming round on his side of the bed until it dipped under his weight again. "Let me see, does it hurt? Crap, Fury's gonna skin me alive if I broke you, Coulson, come on, let go, I need to see the damage..."

Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, drawing his hand gently away from his face. Phil tried so, so hard to summon the blank Agent Coulson mask that had won him innumerable poker games and various and sundry bets, but it was a lost cause.

The silence lasted a good few seconds. Finally, "You are a fucking bastard, Coulson, you know that?" Clint spat, while Phil gave in and laughed until there were tears in his eyes.

"Burned by the sun, seriously, Clint, _what_ have you been reading?" he managed in between helpless peals of laughter. It might just be that the night, the terrible, gut-wrenching fear of losing Clint, of being the one responsible for his death, was catching up with him.

"Oh, you can fuck right off, sir," Clint growled, cheeks flaming when Phil blinked the tears of mirth away enough to see him.

Still chuckling, Phil reached for Clint's arm when Clint's fingers loosened their grip on him and he stood away from the bed, circling Clint's wrist in return and keeping him close.

"I'm sorry," he said, face aching from laughing so hard. "Thank you for being concerned, but come on, you've seen me in daylight how often?"

Clint shuffled his feet and wouldn't meet his gaze. "Yeah, yeah, you can cut out the mocking now. I wasn't thinking, all right?"

The grin on Phil's face tampered down to a smile, soft and fond, that was too much to fight. He tugged at Clint until he was sitting on the bed again, next to his hip, staring awkwardly at the hand that was turning his arm so he could look at the crook of his elbow, assess the damage. Almost no sign of the night before remained, just two small bruises a couple of inches apart. That's where the fangs had gone in, and Phil had to lock his body tight to keep the shudder that was trying to wrack him from showing. 

Clint watched him, cautious eyes that narrowed when Phil froze. 

"I'm fine," Clint said insistently, but he didn't pull his wrist from Phil's hold. 

"Okay," Phil agreed easily, but didn't stop his assessment. Clint's pulse was steady, and so was his breathing; he didn't exhibit signs of dizziness or disorientation. He probably _was_ fine, and Phil should stop fussing.

He had never been especially good at taking his own advice. 

"Okay," Clint repeated, a thread of amused irritation in his voice. "So stop treating me like I'm made of china then."

Phil winced. He supposed it was the right time, as much as he'd have preferred to put off this particular conversation.

"Clint. I would--understand if you didn't want to work with me any longer. You are entitled to trust your handler, or to withdraw that trust, when it's no longer sustainable. If you can't--if you don't trust me any longer, I won't fight you. I've already warned Director Fury to be prepared for your transfer request, when you submit it."

He trailed off awkwardly when Clint lifted his head halfway through the impromptu speech and just _stared_ at him. 

"Coulson, you are so weird," Clint decided after long minutes of watching him with that penetrating gaze of his that could strip paint or the skin off your chest, it felt like sometimes. Phil lifted an imperious eyebrow at him. Clint just shook his head. "At what point in the proceedings when I offered you _my blood to drink_ , and then let you carry me over here like some swooning Victorian heroine, and then _fell asleep on you_ , did you decide that I wouldn't want to keep working with you? I'm just curious here, you understand."

Phil rolled his eyes even as he swallowed tightly. "All right, no need to rub it in," he hedged, shifting on the bed. Clint's eyes flared, and he licked his lips. His pulse picked up speed, until it was almost a hammering in Phil's ears. 

"Oh, I'll rub it in, all right," Clint muttered. Phil wondered if he'd purposefully forgotten about Phil's enhanced hearing, or he just didn't care. He felt like he was shaking inside, shaking apart. 

"I also couldn't help but notice that you didn't mind any of those things. Particularly not the falling asleep on you part, and don't even pretend that you wouldn't have told me to fuck off if you hadn't wanted the role of a pillow."

Phil ground his teeth tightly together. He wondered if his jaw was ticking, like it did sometimes when he was more nervous than angry.

"I was merely--"

"No," Clint interrupted calmly, like he was relating his distaste for an offered cigarette. "Don't bullshit me, sir, you know that shit doesn't stick with me. You wanted to be here. You were going to let yourself die just so you wouldn't bring me harm. You gonna call me a liar, say there's nothing going on?" 

His eyes bored into Phil's, then looked pointedly down to where Phil's fingers were still wrapped snugly around his wrist. 

Phil was loathe to let go, and that more than anything was how he knew that he ought to. But Clint's skin was warm, and his pulse fluttered under Phil's thumb, and -- more importantly -- Clint wasn't moving away, although he could break Phil's grip with no effort at all, Phil had made sure of that. 

He had made a career out of knowing when to take a risk and when to fold. This, despite how distracted and nervous he felt, was a case of the former. He pressed his thumb harder into Clint's skin, made him feel a hint of the leashed strength in his muscles, his bones.

"Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?" he asked. He could smell the capillaries bursting under the skin, feel the heat of the blood rising to the surface. He hated to cause Clint pain, but Clint had to know, had to understand the reality of what he was asking.

The reaction was not what he expected. Granted, he had been bracing for the worst, but he still didn't know to account for the possibility of what was happening before his eyes. Instead of coming to his senses, Clint swayed closer; his pulse kicked up, his pupils dilated, his skin became even warmer under Phil's touch.

"Yes," Clint said, breathless yet firm, like there was no other answer he could give. "God, if you only knew how long I've wanted this. How can you not know, I thought I was so obvious. I must have stunk of arousal every time we got stuck in a safehouse together, watching you walk around in your shirtsleeves, or just out of the shower, fuck. You didn't get that?"

Phil shook his head, throat dry. "We can't smell emotions, Clint. We only get them through the blood, sometimes, then they're strong. I figured you were still hyped up on adrenaline from the missions."

Clint shook his head too, smiling a little, eyes crinkling in the corners making Phil's heart ache with affection.

"Only you would see someone lusting after you as post-mission hype," he said fondly, looking down into Phil's face. It was that which finally succeeded in convincing Phil that this was real; this was actually happening.

“Clint,” he whispered, and Clint leaned in like it was a natural response to Phil’s voice, until his breath was warm on Phil’s lips, until his smell was all that Phil could breathe, replacing the air in his lungs. 

“I want this,” Clint said against his mouth. “I want you. Sir. Please.”

It was more than Phil knew how to take. 

Clint’s lips opened to him like it was their sole purpose in life, soft and pliant, tasting of something faintly sweet that Phil instantly identified as Clint, his scent, the temptation of his blood under the surface. Phil wanted to submerge himself into it, let it drag him down and down until he knew nothing but Clint all around him, taking up his world. He shuddered all over when Clint, instead of merely enduring the kiss, surged in, took charge, chased Phil’s tongue inside his mouth, set to exploring this new terrain. Clint moaned – Phil didn’t know why, only that it made every molecule of his being want more of it, right now. He slipped his hands up Clint’s strong, muscled, gorgeous arms, over shoulders honed from the constant rhythm of draw and release, down a back that could pull 150 lbs without breaking a sweat. God, Clint felt so alive in his arms, so vibrant, like a flame that Phil was helplessly drawn to, wanted to fling himself inside and burn up if that was to be his fate. Clint’s hands clutched at him, his shoulders, bracing him as he crawled into Phil’s lap and carefully settled where Phil yearned for him the most. He moaned deeply, almost unwillingly, at the same moment as his tongue drew over Phil’s teeth.

It was like an electrical charge had gone through him (and he knew what he was saying, knew what that felt like, the burn of his body coming to life at another’s behest). His hands closed on Clint’s ass, dragging him down against him without any input from his brain. Clint moaned even louder, grinding down against Phil’s erection, impossible to hide, not when they were so close there was not the thinnest layer of air between them. His hands wormed into what was left of Phil’s hair, fisting the short strands and pulling just a little, just enough for Phil’s cock to jump against his. 

“Yeah,” Clint panted into his mouth, trying to inch even closer though there was hardly any space left. “Oh, yes. Tell me you want this, too. Tell me,” he begged.

It was unconscionable that Clint should _not know_. “Yes. God, _yes_ , Clint. You don’t know how much.”

With a choked-off groan, Clint kissed him again. His hips flexed, driving his own hardness against Phil’s; for quite the first time in his centuries-long life, Phil felt in real danger of coming in his pants. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Clint grunted, teeth catching on Phil’s lower lip. The spike of lust was unexpected, unprecedented in its intensity. “I want you inside me. I need it. All those years, watching you wear those suits and be all calm and collected and competent, and all that time I wished you’d just back me up against the wall and take me.”

Phil’s blood pressure spiked; his heart gave an alarming lurch in his chest as his imagination presented him with a vivid picture to illustrate Clint’s words. Clint was by no means a small man, nor a light one, but Phil’s strength was several times what his human body suggested it ought to be. He wouldn’t even break a sweat to hold Clint up, back against the wall, hands under his thighs, opening him up for Phil to fuck right into him—

“You’re trying to kill me,” he managed. “It’s the only explanation.”

Clint chuckled darkly, breath teasing Phil’s lips while his eyes bore into Phil’s. “If it’ll get you keeping up…” he murmured, rich and dark and sinfully tempting. 

Phil considered. They could stay here, on the bed – one advantage to which being that he wouldn’t have to move from this spot, and neither would Clint. But—

But he could not get rid of the image of Clint pinned to the wall, open and at Phil’s mercy. All these years, and Phil never knew that about himself, never even suspected how much he needed to have Clint like that, going nowhere and more than happy to stay where he was. The wall opposite the bed was bare, inviting. Phil made his choice.

Between one blink and the next, Clint’s back was pressed to it. He stared at Phil in wonder while Phil’s hands kept him easily aloft, pinned in place further by Phil’s hips grinding into his. He moaned loudly, looking startled at the impulse and the sound both; he attacked Phil’s mouth, kissed him like he was starving, desperate, like Phil was everything he wanted in the world. 

“Yes,” Phil heard muffled between one kiss and the next, and “Please,” and “Fucking do it, sir, fuck me, I’m yours.” He could only vaguely understand how Clint’s clothes had come to be strewn around them, how his hands were sliding over smooth, toned skin, relishing the feel of the muscles shifting underneath. Clint was hardly a passive participant in the encounter; his hands were everywhere, in Phil’s hair, on Phil’s back, digging in, pulling him closer. Phil’s mouth latched onto the side of Clint’s neck; his eyes slipped closed at the feel of it, the taste, the muffled rushing of blood so close to the skin. He reeled to know that Clint trusted him so much, that he was baring his neck to him, head falling back, letting him do as he wished. 

“Where did you come from?” he whispered, not bothering to cringe at the wonder in his voice. He was sure he had done nothing to deserve so much, all that was offered to him without the slightest reserve. 

“Hell,” Clint whispered as Phil mouthed at his neck, scraped teeth gently over the skin. “But you pulled me out. Whatever you think you’re asking of me now, it’s nothing to what you’ve already given me.”

Phil was aching, so hard he feared he would hurt Clint if he kept pushing against him like that. His fingers found Clint’s hole, nudged around the edges, slipped the tiniest bit in, as much as he dared without any kind of lubrication to ease the way. Clint gasped, shuddered, kissed him like he was dying and still all he wanted to hold on to was Phil. Phil cursed his lack of preparedness; the one time he could have used some of his apparently legendary competence and he’d fallen at the first hurdle. He lowered Clint gently to the floor, kissed the vehement protests from his mouth.

“Stay here,” he directed, making note of the way Clint shivered under his hands, pressed back into the wall like nothing could make him move from the spot. Phil wanted to rip his bags open in his haste, tear at zips and fabric until he got at what he needed – but Clint’s eyes followed his every move, and he hadn’t forgotten what Clint had said earlier. He took a deep breath, pushed back the haze of desire, and made his every move deliberate, economical, forced his heartbeat down and unbuttoned buttons and unzipped zips until he felt the sachets he was after under his fingers. 

When he turned back, he was met with eyes that appeared almost feverish in their need. Clint’s palms and his cheek were pressed to the wall; his face was flushed, his lips open, his chest heaving. He was so, so beautiful, and Phil wanted nothing more than to press himself against him again, wrap himself in that warmth, put his lips on the base of Clint’s throat and not move for a very long time. And he might, he thought; as soon as both their hungers were sated, he intended to lay Clint down on the bed and plaster himself to his side, curl around the curve of his body and stay there for as long as Clint would let him. But for now…

Clint’s eyes tracked his every move. He turned his head again, tilting his chin imperiously, demanding without words to be given what he wanted. Phil closed the distance between them, removing his clothes as he walked, step after step bringing him nearer to the silk of Clint’s skin, the heat he was giving out like a furnace. As soon as he was close enough, Clint curled a hand over the nape of his neck, braced a hand on his shoulder, heaved—and then his legs were curling over Phil’s hips, strong muscles gripping him tight, holding him in place. For a long moment, Phil couldn’t breathe; he could have sworn that all the blood from his head had drifted south, that his body had taken over when his mind had drawn a blank because his very blood insisted that he take Clint so completely that he’d never even think of wanting anyone else. 

He tried to go as slowly as he could. He might be nearly consumed with need, but that was no reason not to be thorough, and there was no excuse for hurting Clint just because he could hardly recognize himself right now under the overwhelming drive to be inside Clint, just like Clint’s blood was inside him, a part of him, in every cell, keeping him alive. Clint was not exactly helping his resolve: he swore and twisted in Phil’s grip, trying to fuck himself down on his fingers, thighs flexing, rubbing their cocks together and driving Phil utterly insane. 

“Goddamn it, sir, come on, I don’t need that much, I’m ready, I want it, do it now, fuck me—“ It was a never-ending litany of supplications and goading that, for all his experience in negotiations, Phil did not find himself qualified to resist.

One hand keeping Clint in place, he used the other to slick himself up, unheeding of the fact his cock was bare. He couldn’t get Ebola, much less an STD, and he couldn’t give Clint anything, either, not via his cock. Clint purred and bit his lip when Phil pressed the head of it against his opening, eyes at half-mast, glittering at Phil through a thick fringe of lashes. 

“Mmm, please,” he murmured, breathing into Phil’s mouth, catching the edge of Phil’s lower lip with his. Phil could take the tease no longer; he plunged inside Clint’s mouth at the same moment as he pushed inside his body, sheathed himself in the warmth of him, swallowed his grunt and went back for more. Clint canted his hips under him, trying to draw more of him inside, and before Phil knew what was happening, he was balls-deep in Clint, pressed along his chest so tightly that there was barely a molecule left between them, and Clint was literally climbing up his body, using his thighs and arms as leverage to drag his ass along Phil’s cock, and Phil thought, I am actually going to die, my heart will give out, because he could not bear this for any length of time with anything resembling equanimity. 

“You’re not moving, sir,” Clint murmured, low and dragging, a goddamn tease was what he was. “Not enjoying this as much as you thought you would?”

Phil stared at him, appalled. “ _Clint,_ ” he said, packing as much disbelief into the words as he could manage. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Clint shrugged, but Phil saw his eyes sliding away from his, and no, they couldn’t have that. 

“Clint Barton,” he said quietly, kissing the edge of his jaw once, twice, until Clint looked back at him. “I can honestly say that I have never wanted anyone more than I want you. Not just now. Always. I’ll _always_ want you, even when you’re turning away from me and leaving me behind.”

Clint looked raw, for a split second, like Phil was the one killing him rather than the other way round. “Never,” he snapped. “I’m never going to leave you behind. I—I fucking love you, Phil.”

Phil swallowed dryly. It did not occur to him to even consider doubting Clint’s words. He was the best lie detector SHIELD had; he could grasp minute changes of heart rate, perspiration, a blink out of place. Clint was staring at him defiantly, a little afraid, maybe, of what Phil might say back, but he was certainly not lying. 

“Clint,” he whispered, still sheathed to the hilt inside him, so strung out with the need to sink his teeth inside the fragile skin at Clint’s throat, to _claim_ him, that he could barely breathe. He couldn’t do that to Clint. Clint had no idea what it would mean, to be claimed by a vampire; how every time he met one, they’d look at the bite lingering underneath regardless of how perfectly the skin healed, they’d see it and know Clint _belonged_ to someone. It was dangerous, as much as it was demeaning. Clint was no one’s servant, not that Phil would _ever_ think of him that way, but those other vampires… Clint would be in danger, especially if anyone connected him to Phil. Phil was not without his enemies, and the mere idea that anyone could use Clint to get at him was abhorrent. He could not consider it, just like he should never consider biting him. “Clint, you don’t know what you do to me.”

Clint watched him, eyes drifting over his face, calm like he didn’t have Phil inside him, keeping him wide open. 

“Whatever it is, you need to know that I want all of you. Not just this. Not just the nice parts, the rigidly controlled Phil Coulson that everyone knows and loves. I want you wild and dangerous, I want you when you’re scaring the living shit out of everyone.” He flexed around Phil’s cock, and Phil gasped as desire scalded him. “I want you, because I know you’d never hurt me, not on purpose. And if you do, well, you’ll have a damn good reason for it. I don’t care about the consequences, Phil. I want you. I mean to have you, no matter the cost. That’s all there is to it. If that’s not what you want, tell me now, break this now, because I won’t be able to let go once I’ve had it.”

Phil was reeling, as if he weren’t tethered to Clint’s body, the wall behind Clint’s back. “You can’t want that,” he said, and instantly knew it was the wrong thing to say by the way Clint’s expression turned thunderous. “No, Clint, listen. I take you the way I want you, you won’t be able to go back. You’ll be marked, mine, always. You meet another vampire, they’ll know you belong to one of us. Even if, someday, you don’t want us to be together any more, you’ll still carry my mark until the day you die.”

Clint’s face had gone slack the longer Phil spoke, pupils dilating, hands clenching on Phil’s back, hauling him closer. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now,” he said, and this time, Phil _could_ smell the arousal off him, feel the way his skin heated, the way his heart throbbed like a frightened bird’s. 

“But… Clint, you belong to no one,” he said. It was something he’d heard Clint state time and time again, in expressions of varying creativity. He’d come to accept it, know it as a part of who Clint was.

But now Clint was looking at him like he was an idiot, and Phil just didn’t understand.

Clint shook his head. “Phil,” he signed, releasing his shoulder to run a hand through Phil’s hair and curl it at the nape of his neck. “I belong to _you_. I have done since the first. Didn’t want to admit it, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I have always been _your_ archer, _your_ agent, _your_ responsibility. Yours. You say jump, I don’t even ask how high. Fury can try menacing me with his one-eyed glare of death all he likes, but you’re the one whose missions I take, the only one who can bring me back from the brink. Hell, you’re my medical proxy. _You_ have the say whether I live or die, if the choice has to be made. How much _more_ could I possibly belong to you? And before you go off at the deep end at me, like I can see you’re itching to, bear in mind the fact that _I’m_ the one who gave you that power. I didn’t have to do any of it. But I could no more not do it than stop breathing. A physical mark that only some people can see? That’s the _least_ of my worries.”

Phil stared at him, head spinning. Before he could scrounge up any words at all, Clint huffed a little self-deprecating laugh, jolting his balance enough to make Phil gasp.

“And can I just say how titillating I’m finding the fact that we’re having this conversation with your cock up my ass?”

Phil stared at him, and knew that he had never loved this man more than in that moment. “I don’t even have the words, Barton,” he said dryly, leaning in and kissing any and all protests from his mouth before they were fully formed. He flexed inwards, bracing against the flash of blinding pleasure it sent coursing through him. 

“Mine, huh?” he said against Clint’s swollen lips, and Clint rolled his eyes, said, “I can’t believe it took you this fucking long to work out, sir, I thought you were smart,” and Phil—

Phil bared his teeth, let the fang plates slide in place, and sunk them into Clint’s jugular vein. 

Clint’s blood flooded his mouth in the next fraction of a second, sweet and tangy, full of emotions, memories – their argument was fresh in his mind’s eye, tinged in orange lust, lavender affection, the dark red of satisfaction, and Phil sucked greedily on it all, let it fill him, warm him, poured back through the bite all his helpless adoration of this man, his disbelief that Clint wanted him back, fading now but still an echo in his head. He let Clint feel the depth of his feelings, how long he had watched Clint and wanted, too afraid to hope. Clint whimpered under him, and Phil drew back, sooner than he might have wanted but not soon enough, he knew. He drew his own tongue over his canines, sliced it open and licked Clint’s neck closed, pressing until his blood knitted the punctures in the blood vessel as well as the skin. He drew back, and already he could see his mark pulsing under Clint’s skin, the burnt sienna of possession, of claiming what he wanted so badly.

He also knew that he was less than sixty seconds away from emptying himself inside Clint’s body.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint chanted, hands desperate on Phil’s skin. “Please, please, I’m so close, I’m gonna come, Phil, please, come on!”

Phil growled, snapped his hips up, slamming them against Clint’s ass, pushing himself deeper, as deep as he’d go. He set a punishing rhythm, hard and fast, pinned Clint in place with one arm under his buttocks and took his cock in the other, gripping tight, stroking with a twist at the top, thumb glued to the underside of the head, and Clint—

Clint fell apart in his arms, painting Phil’s chest with his come, moaning loud enough to wake the dead. It was enough to bring Phil over the edge with him, enough to sink his (human) teeth into the meat of Clint’s shoulder to muffle his yell. 

“No, don’t heal that one,” Clint murmured a minute or so later, when Phil slid out of him and let him drop his trembling legs to the floor. Phil looked askance at the bruise already rising up under the skin, appalled at himself. Clint merely laughed, shaky as he caught his breath. 

“You’ve marked me to my very cells. A little bruise isn’t going to make much difference, and besides, I like seeing it. I can’t see the other one.”

Phil smiled, shifting his grip on Clint and carrying him to the bed, laying him back along the mattress and valiantly ignoring his grumbling. He’d taken even more blood from him; Hell, but he was terrible at self-control around this man. 

“Close your eyes,” he said. Clint looked at him suspiciously, but did as he was told. The dichotomy of Clint’s complete and utter trust in him and his just as constant little reminders that he had Phil’s number was… Well, it was wonderful, and made him indescribably happy. “Now, concentrate on my voice. Try to picture me in your head.”

“I can always picture you in my head, who do you think I used as jerking off fodder all these years—oh!”

‘You feel that?” Phil asked, ignoring – or rather, filing the other part for later consideration. 

“Like… Like I have a hot water bottle on the side of my neck. It feels nice.”

“Glad you think so.” Phil couldn’t help himself; he ran his hand through Clint’s sweaty hair, pushing the damp strands away from his forehead. Clint sighed and nudged closer, turning into Phil’s side. With no choice that he could stomach to make, Phil slid down onto the bed beside Clint, smiling when Clint took that as invitation to immediately sprawl half-on top of him and snuggle in. 

“So, like, am I going to be able to, I don’t know, hear your thoughts? Sense when you’re in danger? Will it help you track me from the other side of the world? Is it like a link that’ll help you find me always?”

Phil let his head fall back onto the pillow, smacking his other (now wiped clean) hand over his face. “Why are you like this,” he groaned. Clint wasn’t _entirely_ wrong, but Hell if Phil was having this conversation right now. They had time – more time than Clint might have suspected just then. All the time in the world, more or less. There were benefits to being a vampire’s mate. 

He could feel Clint’s smirk press into his chest. “You love me, sir.”

And the truth was? 

“Yes, I do.”


End file.
